Caprices of Angels
by gumcrunch
Summary: "She wipes away the water in her eyes with the back of her hand and looks up to see him staring at her, a distinct expression etched on his face. The one that has become all too familiar on nights like this. On nights rationality just didn't seem enough."- MAYWARD FIC, Post S01E13: T.R.A.C.K.S.


**A/N **So I am not at all good with angst, that I will admit, but the last episode had too sad of an ending for me to come up with something more light-hearted to play around with. Anyway, I hope this came out fine for posting. Thanks in advance for reading.

* * *

In the middle of the last shot, he takes the glass away from his lips, lets the liquid linger behind his teeth for a minute. Tilting his head back, his tongue pushes the alcohol down his throat, and he beats his chest once as it surges through to his stomach. The burn is useless against the bitter cold swirling inside him. He digs his nails in his shirt with violent pressure, as if wanting to rip something out. He tries desperately to exhale, but his breaths come out unbearably short.

_"Grant, help me!"_

The room starts spinning in a fast-forward haze as it gains volume in his head. Suddenly, he is surrounded by nothing but formless streaks of color.

_"Grant, help me!"_

It would not stop. He stares at the ceiling with tears in his eyes pleading for it to be quiet, begging for it to allow him the slightest he has left of peace.

_"Help me!"_

His glass slips to the floor and shatters into jagged shards before his feet. He staggers in circles on feeble legs, palms flat over his ears and his eyes shut tight, demanding for darkness as he scrambles for breath.

He sees him behind his eyelids nonetheless, and the sight of his face urges his hands to strike something—everything, and let control slip away completely.

He clenches his fingers into tight, unyielding fists, the harsh sensation of freezing glass pricking the skin of his palms. All warmth has drained away from him.

_"Please, help me!"_

The images come like overwhelming flashes of light in front of him. The well. Skye. Coulson. His brother. Coulson. The rope. Blood. Coulson. Water. Coulson. The chamber. Coulson. Coulson.

_Coulson_. His face is everything he could see now.

A repulsive intensity curdles in his chest. He could feel control involuntarily escaping his senses, as the struggle to contain himself drags him down to the floor. Squirming. Mouth open in a soundless scream.

At the final edge of draining his lungs entirely, Ward finds himself standing outside her door.

* * *

May's eyes shoot open.

From beneath the water, she sees his blurred figure hovering above her. She hears him say her name, subdued by the depth into an almost inaudible whisper, but still quite clear.

She props herself on her elbows and lifts herself up to a sitting position, a weak splash spilling from the tub as she draws her knees toward her chest. She wipes away the water in her eyes with the back of her hand and looks up to see him staring at her, a distinct expression etched on his face. The one that has become all too familiar on nights like this. On nights rationality didn't seem enough.

"I can't breathe," he murmurs softly, pain apparent in his hoarse voice.

May lets out a long, heavy sigh, debating against herself whether it would be best to talk him down or let him get to better judgment by himself. The palpable agony in his eyes suggests he needs more than just her silence now.

"Remember where you stand, Agent Ward."

Her voice is soft. Her words, unforgivingly straightforward, yet they sound neither stern nor indifferent to his ears. On the contrary, her tone is actually, _surprisingly_ sympathetic. And by the commiserating expression on her face, he realizes she has him figured out exactly.

Ward retreats against the wall, sitting at the corner of the tub opposite her, wringing his hands furiously.

"I should be there. I should be the one. I should be there with her. I should be… _I should…_" his voice trails off and he clenches his jaw in frustration.

"Is he still—"

"Yes," he cuts her off.

It takes a moment before he realizes his curt response only revealed his seething anger more. He buries his face in his hands, a heavy breath escaping through the gaps of his fingers.

"I can't look at him. Every time I do, I just—I don't want this," he strikes his chest with brute force, eyes bloodshot from fighting back bitter tears.

May sits wordless, taking in his helpless form. They are going through hell—_all of them_—right now, but she knows the torture is cutting deep into Ward.

It was never these situations that frightened him. His reactions were what he wanted to avoid. Because this is _exactly_ what he knew would happen.

"I don't want to feel this… I don't… I can't… _I don't want to feel_…"

May catches his fist before he strikes his chest again. His skin feels like ice against hers, barbed and bitingly cold, the stark opposite of her own temperature. She raises her face to look at him, expecting him to withdraw from her touch. Instead, he opens his palm and interlaces his fingers securely between hers, welcoming the burning heat in her hands and absorbing it.

He has felt her like this once before. When he found her in the same exact position, submerged in an overflowing tub, she told him she did not like her hands warm. It was enough of an explanation, he did not have to ask anymore.

He is not the only one grappling with demons tonight.

"I don't want to feel this about Coulson. I don't—I don't want to blame him…" he chokes on the rage threatening to rise up from him once more. "I don't want to blame him, _but I do. I blame him. For Skye…_"

His eyes find their way to the gash on May's shoulder, and he could feel his temper flaring now without his permission. His breath catches in his throat as he runs his free hand lightly over the skin next to the gaping wound. He grits his teeth and his nails dig into her knuckles.

"None of this should have happened. _This would not have happened if he hadn't—_"

"You're right," she interrupts him. "None of this should have happened."

"What did he say to her? Skye, she… she wouldn't have… unless…" he exhales heavily, struggling for words. "How could he not have seen this coming?"

"You forget reason, Ward," she lets go of him and his hand shivers in the sudden lack of contact. "You are speaking without listening to yourself."

He backs away and collects himself, pursing his lips into a tight line as he casts his eyes to the floor.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

It is too hard not to understand him, especially when she does. She knows exactly where he is coming from.

She coaxes him to look at her and for one second, she almost surrenders to the searing force in her own chest, but she resists. Coupling her emotions with his will not benefit either one of them at this moment. She returns her touch to him, resting the same hand on his arm.

"People like us know we are defined by every mission we fail to accomplish. We treat mistakes as hindrances to our existence, when it's actually the only thing left to remind us we are human."

The tears fall down his eyes and he makes no effort to hide them from her.

"He knows his fault, trust that he does," May stares into him, translating sincerity as she clasps his arm tighter. "You're not the only one, Grant."

He softens at the sound of her voice saying his name.

"Coulson is not absolving himself any more than you are. Your reasons for blaming his decisions are justifiable but he has his own, too. _And his are greater and more difficult than what you're allowed to know right now._"

He sucks in a breath as he feels her loosen her grip on him.

"Trust that this team will do everything to get Skye back. _Coulson will do everything to get Skye back. _Remember where you stand, Grant, and _we will get her back_."

He catches her hand before she lets him go completely, grasping it firmly and bringing it to his cheek, permitting himself to revel in her sensation.

"Help me," he whispers pleadingly.

She looks at him, imploring her for approval. She takes a moment to consider hesitation, to consider the fact that her own body is threatening fire, and she, herself, is having difficulty controlling it.

But they are all in this now. To deny him tonight would be no better than to leave him bleeding out.

She raises her eyes to his and nods once.

They lay that night together, bodies pressed against each other under water, exchanging breaths between the slight distance separating their mouths.

In the early morning, Ward will go to where Skye is. He will guard the chamber where they keep her and wait for her to wake up. He will follow orders as he is told and fulfill his responsibilities to his team. To Skye. To Coulson.

But for that night, the only thing he needs to do is remember. Beneath the cold water, he washes himself clean of hate and of rage. In the steady sound of their shared silence, the images in his head are replaced by the comforting vision of the present. In the reassuring warmth of her arms enveloping his body, he regains reason.


End file.
